of the FBI. If there was anything going on there, he knew about it, and his general sense of outrage usually spurred him to share what he knew.
He just kind of snickered. 'I don't know a whole lot about Ms.
Stevens, aside from the fact that the male agents seem to really like her. The brass must too, if they put her on a case like this.'
For the hell of it, I added, 'And Kent Drinker?'
'Well, that one's a little trickier. You know his checkered background, yet his renaissance here has been something to behold, and those who have worked with him have few complaints.'
I said, 'Yeah, his history, to say the least, is complex.'
I intentionally left a void of silence open, hoping he would fill it with some information he might not otherwise have felt inclined to offer. An old reporter's trick. But Hancock's too good for that, and probably uses the same trick himself. So instead we just had an awkward pause.
Finally I asked innocently, 'You don't even want to know how I am?'
He laughed a hearty laugh. 'Next time,' he said. 'Right now, I've got to run.'
I held the phone in my hand for a moment after he had hung up. Then, for a sense of structure, I typed what I knew into my computer. First, there was a gunman who no one really knew anything about, although the FBI immediately, seemingly without any foundation, had reported he was a militia member. Second, there was the matter of this anonymous source, telling me this shooting was not what it seemed, whatever that meant. Third, the outcome of a presidential election hung in the balance, affected one uncertain way or another by this gunman's errant shot.
'What do you think of Idaho?'
That was Martin, bursting my concentration. I slowly, inconspicuously slipped a magazine over the typewritten note as I sprinted around the hallways of my mind, wondering what in God's name he meant by Idaho.
Shit, I realized, the militia leader.
'I don't know,' I said. 'I've just been trying to piece together the holes we have right now. There are a lot of them.'
'No shit. All holes. No answers. We need a break on this, and we need it fast. You think you should just get on a plane, try to break some news on the militia front? If it ends up that these groups are disavowing any knowledge of this gunman, it raises a whole lot of questions. Here's two of them: Who the hell is this guy, and why were the feds so quick to blame the militias?'
Good points, all, stated in Martin's typically concise manner. By now, the bureau had risen fully to life. Phones were ringing. Barbara was calling out messages over the intercom. Reporters were standing at their desks, pacing around, trading insults. I drank it in appreciatively as I sat there weighing my options. I didn't want to jump on a plane for the backwoods of America, specifically the Idaho Panhandle, not now anyway, not with what I had going on. I was due in the Oval Office at noon and at the Newseum at five-thirty that afternoon, for a meeting with my anonymous source that could change the direction of this entire story. Not to be overly dramatic, but it could change my career. On the other hand, suppose my source had nothing new? Suppose he was just another crazy? By heading out to Idaho, I had the distinct possibility of learning something more concrete, and we now had Havlicek working angles here in Washington.
'Why don't we hold off on a definitive plan until we see what happens with Hutchins,' I said, finding nice, neutral ground. 'We'll see if he makes news, if he throws us in any direction. Then we'll decide if it's worth the trip west.'
'That's good, very good,' Martin said, satisfied. He turned around and walked away, saying to no one in particular, though I suspect it was meant for me, 'Of course, that leaves us with nothing definitive in the works.'
My meeting at the Newseum could fix that dilemma, but I wasn't quite ready to share that with him yet.
I quickly picked up the phone and, while poking through my electronic Rolodex, punched out a telephone number in Sand Falls, Idaho, specifically a ranch called Freedom Lake, headquarters for one of the most far- reaching militia groups in America. A young man, sounding no more than twenty years old, picked up on the second ring.
'Minutemen,' he said.
I put on my sternest don't-fuck-with-me voice. 'Daniel there?' I said, just about snapping the phone wires with my steely resolve.
'Who wants to know?' the kid said, sounding more punkish by the monosyllable.
'Jack Flynn from the Boston Record,' I said. I had met with Daniel Nathaniel-yes, it's his real name, God bless his parents-the year before, and we had hit it off in an odd kind of way.
'I'll have Ben call you back when he has time. He handles all of our news media calls.'
'No,' I said, my voice growing even sharper. 'You'll go in and tell Mr. Nathaniel that Jack Flynn is on the line, then you'll transfer the call in when he tells you.'
The kid put me on hold without saying anything, and next thing I heard was a ringing sound, then the voice of Nathaniel saying, 'Do you know how hard it is to keep good soldiers inspired in a revolution, Jack?
And you trying to scare my best receptionist right away.'
'Sorry about that, old man,' I said. 'Here's the thing, though. I need some help, and I think you're in a position to give it.'
'Jesus H. Christ. A celebrity like you is still doing the pick-and-shovel work for that newspaper? After seeing you on the tube, I figured you'd have joined one of the networks by now and be making a million large a year-half of that stolen in the form of federal taxes.' He paused and added, 'Go ahead.'
'I need to know what you're picking up on this Hutchins assassination attempt. Where'd this Harvey Oswald wannabe come from? He one of your boys? He come from another state?'
'What I have would surprise you,' Nathaniel said. 'But you know I'm not going to talk about it over the phone like this.'
Of course not. Daniel Nathaniel, like every red-blooded militia revolutionary, believed that the federal government, in its role of Big Brother, was listening to every conversation of every citizen every day, even taking pictures of those talking on the telephone with a new technology in spy satellite photography that allowed the lens to penetrate things like walls and roofs. I would have to hotfoot it to Idaho after all.
'What if I pay a social call on you?' I asked.
'That's better. You do that, first beer's on me. Next twenty are on that liberal newspaper of yours.'
'You going to be around for the next few days?'
'Where would I go?' he said. 'I'm in God's country out here.'
'And this information, is it worth the trip?'
'Maybe, maybe not. But the pleasure of my company will make it worthwhile.'
'Let's go over some questions,' Martin said, once again appearing at my desk out of seemingly thin air. 'We have to chase him on this militia angle, find out what he knows, where this investigation is headed.
Would be nice to get him out there on the record on this stuff.
Everyone else, especially the Times, is driving this thing with anonymous sources. Hutchins has avoided the topic in his public events. This is big.'
'It is strange,' I said, 'these investigators now backtracking on what they claimed was such a clear-cut motive. Maybe it's all nothing. But yeah, you're right, Hutchins might be our best avenue to breaking some new ground here.'
We talked over some questions. Martin, for all his idiosyncrasies, and they are many, is good at that, cutting to the quick, finding the fault lines, gauging reader interest. I'm good too, and I possess the additional ability that he doesn't necessarily have, of dealing with people, and I'd have to lean heavily on that to steer Hutchins away from what I assumed was the point of this meeting-the offer of press secretary-and over to my purpose-the investigation into the assassination attempt.
At about eleven-thirty, I slipped into my navy blue suit jacket, put a microcassette recorder into my chest
